Seaside Conversations 2
by Soledad
Summary: Imrahil of Dol Amroth sails to Edhellond to visit Gildor Inglorion one last time before the Elf leaves ME. Written for the oneyear anniversary of the Edhellond group. Story complete.
1. Part 1

**SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS 2**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Master Andrahar, Lady Tirathiel, Liahan and Esteven belong to Isabeau of Greenlea and are used with her gracious consent. Enedrion, Falathar, Vorondis and all other Edhellond people belong to me.

**Rating:** G

**Dedication:** This story has been written for the one-year-anniversary of the Edhellond group which was on October 23) and is dedicated to its members. Posted belatedly due to RL issues.

**Summary:** Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, sails into Edhellond after Aragorn's wedding to say his farewells to the Lord of the South Haven.

**Author's notes:**

This is a sequel to my story "Seaside Conversations". Obviously. Reading the first part is not absolutely necessary to understand this one, but it might help.

Gildor Inglorion's ancestry and his role as the Lord of Edhellond and as the long-time ally of the Princes of Dol Amroth is entirely my creation. My sincerest thanks to Vorondis (the writer) for helping me to create the similarly named character. There is even a line, spoken by the character, which has been borrowed from one of her reviews. :)

My heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

PART 1 

**[The 15th day of Yavannië (Ivanneth), in the year 3019 of the Third Age]**

With the return of Théoden King's funeral escort from the Riddermark, things became quiet for Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Not needed in Minas Tirith any longer, he could finally return to Dol Amroth and begin to reorganize his realm after the war.

Healing all the wounds the long struggle against Mordor had inflicted on both people and lands could begin.

But first he had one particular farewell to speak. For this reason, he did not take the three-week-ride to his home as usual, but boarded the ship of his second-born son to travel on the Sea.

He was sailing into Edhellond, to see Gildor Inglorion one last time.

Under normal circumstances Imrahil would go alone, as Gildor emphatically disliked mortals within the borders of his small realm, save the princely family. But this was the last chance for him, too, to meet some of the mortal friends he had made in Dol Amroth, thus Imrahil was reasonably certain that he would not object to the presence of the Lady Tirathiel and the one or other Swan Knight. Or that of Faramir, in fact, who had never been to Edhellond before.

Andrahar was a different case, of course, but in this one Imrahil had put his foot down firmly. Not that Andrahar, who generally disliked Elves (and Gildor more so than all the others together), would have wanted to accompany him on this particular journey. Yet Edhellond was part of Imrahil's youth, and for this one time he wanted to share it with the man who was his brother in all but blood. Thus Andrahar gave in, scowling, and boarded the ship obediently.

"I never hoped to live to see the day when I would visit the Elf-haven myself," said Faramir softly, standing upon the forward deck of the _Foamflyer_ and looking towards their ultimate goal. The slender white tower known as Tirith Aear(2), raised in the bay of Tirond Aear(3) back in the Second Age by Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood herself, could already be seen glittering upon the faint shoreline. And even farther away, barely visible even for the keen eyes of the Dúnedain, the town of Edhellond glimmered like a castle built of blue mist.

The Elf-haven, Faramir knew from the tales of his cousins who were allowed to visit it as often as they wanted, occupied a 150 foot high hill that rose out of the lower Morthond less than a mile from the Bay of Belfalas. The rocky hillock formed a 1500 foot long isle, which was just over 500 feet across at its widest point. Three stairways connected the gently terraced hillock with the quay below. The town was surrounded by a low white wall and a ring of silvery oaks. The four high towers with blue tiled roofs sparkled in the clear sky, visible even from this considerable distance(4).

"Are you not the one who was always wary about seeking out the Firstborn without invitation?" asked the Lady Tirathiel, her normally icy grey eyes gentle now and full of memories. Faramir nodded.

"True enough. I thought it was not our place to meddle in the affairs of Elves. But 'tis also the truth that I have envied my cousins all my life. The tales about Edhellond and its proud Lord were my childhood favourites."

"I hope you find the real item worthy of your dreams," the Lady said seriously. "I fear Imrahil handled without consideration taking so many people with him. Lord Gildor does not like being crowded, and he prefers to invite his guests ere they overrun his house."

"Do you believe he would turn us back from his harbour, Aunt Tirathiel?" Faramir asked in surprise. The Lady shrugged.

"'Tis possible. He is a rather unpredictable Elf."

The possibility saddened Faramir greatly, as he had wanted to visit the Elf-haven since he was a child. But when after many hours they finally sailed into Edhellond, they were welcomed heartily by the Harbour Master, a tall, silver-haired Elf, one of the handful Teleri of old who still dwelt in Middle-earth. His name was Salmarin, and he shared his duties with his brother, Ariandir, who, however, frequently travelled across Middle-earth with their Lord's Wandering Company.

"Welcome to the South Haven, my Lord Prince," he greeted Imrahil cheerfully; then he turned to Tirathiel and bowed politely. "My Lady, it has been too long since your last visit. Alas, Lord Gildor is currently visiting one of the forest settlements, but he is expected back in the early evening. He has left instructions for you to be cared for, thus the best thing might be to go to his house at once. "You can leave your ship in our care, Erchirion," he added with a grin. "We have built her in these very shipyards, after all. I am certain that Master Eriant would not mind to take a look at her. He is very fond of the _Foamflyer_. 'Tis a rare thing for a shipwright to plan and build a ship together with her future captain. The crew is welcome to spend their time here in the harbour, of course, while you are visiting Lord Gildor's house."

The bearded prince laughed and embraced the Harbour Master, who had taught him all the fine tricks of sailing, unceremoniously.

"I think I shall stay here for a while with your people, Master Salmarin. We have a lot to catch up with. Is Guilin at home?"

Guilin was the captain of Edhellond's small fleet – a relatively young and rather adventurous Sindarin Elf, who often hunted the Corsairs of Umbar on Erchirion's side. They were close friends, as close as an Elf and a Man could ever get, given the restrictions of their individual lifespans.

"Aye, he is at home, the reckless one," Salmarin grinned. "When he heard from the gulls that the _Foamflyer_ is coming, he turned back from patrol and sent out another ship, just to be able to meet you. We are all expected in the _Drunken Goblin_, right after sunset."

The _Drunken Goblin_ was one of the harbour taverns, visited almost exclusively by Elven mariners. There were other taverns, more suitable for mortal visitors who usually were not allowed deeper into the town that the harbour, but Erchirion was considered an Elf-friend and thus welcome everywhere where no ordinary mortals would be accepted.

Erchirion rubbed his hands in glee. Having a feast with Elven mariners was a rare treat, and he was looking forward to it, even if it meant that he would be terribly hung over for the next couple of days. Elves could hold their wine a lot better than mortals, and the endurance of Elven _mariners_ was legendary, even among their own kind.

"Father, I shall join you when Lord Gildor returns, if you do not mind," he said to Imrahil. "I would like to spend some time with my old friends."

Imrahil nodded his agreement – Erchirion had always been close to the Elven mariners, and it was not an influence he would have to worry about, despite the occasional drinking feasts – and thus the rest of their party left the _Foamflyer_ to walk through the small Elven town and up to Gildor's house.

Knowing Gildor Inglorion from the many tales of his cousins only, Faramir had expected him to live in a vast palace, full of pomp and wondrous items. What he found instead understandably surprised him very much.

Instead of a palace worthy of his high birth, the proud Lord of Edhellond had a homestead not unlike many others owned by his subjects, containing a well-built but simple two-story house, a walled courtyard, a garden with a fountain adjoining the orchard and a meadow behind the stables where his horses were kept. Beyond the meadow, there even was a small wood that, too, belonged to him. He owned a herd of cattle as well, domesticated white kine, descended from the famous wild oxen of the South.

Nevertheless, the house _was_ spacious, spreading all over the hilltop, and it served as a home for Gildor's household and also for those of the Wandering Company who had no relatives in town. They were placed in the different wings, so that they rarely ran into each other, unless they wanted to.

The guests were welcomed in the open parlour on the seaside by a slender, dark-haired Noldorin woman who wore a simple grey gown in the fashion of the Galadhrim, with black armlets to protect her sleeves. She looked rather plain for an Elf, but her grey-blue eyes mirrored wisdom and knowledge, ripened through hundreds of years.

The woman was called Vorondis, and she had been Gildor's librarian since the foundation of Edhellond, having worked on the history of Finrod's House for about just as long. Her parents belonged to the handful refugees who had managed to escape the destruction of Nargothrond but had sailed to the West right after the War of Wrath. Her only relative on this side of the Sea was Falathar, her younger brother, one of Gildor's wandering minstrels.

She was a solitary person and surprisingly shy for an Elf of her age, and it usually was not part of her duties to welcome Gildor's guests, even less so mortal ones. But both the seneschal of the house and the Lord's personal aide had accompanied him on his short visit in Calenbel(5), and thus Vorondis had no choice but to take over for them.

In this particular case, however, she did not mind as much as she would have done otherwise. She genuinely liked Imrahil – their friendship went back 'til those two years which the then-young prince, having a serious quarrel with his father, had spent under Gildor's roof – and she had stood in unbroken correspondence with the scholarly Tirathiel for decades. She was actually looking forward to an extended conversation with the mortal woman.

The raven-haired young Man on Imrahil's side was not known to her. But he wore the black and silver clothes of the Steward of Gondor, and also a great likeness to Imrahil himself, thus Vorondis could easily conclude that he could be no-one else but Finduilas' son. He was said to be a lover of books and lore, something most Men neglected greatly in these lesser times. 'Twas good to know that not all of them turned to the arts of war completely.

The swarthy Man with the badger-striped black hair and the piercing dark eyes on Imrahil's other side, wearing the garb of the Swan Knights, was unfamiliar, too – at least from the sight of him. But Gildor's frequent mocking about Imrahil's sworn brother – a barbarian of Harad – was enough for her to recognize him as the infamous Master Andrahar, the Armsmaster of the Prince.

For the Haradrim's sake she chose to greet the guests in Westron; a tongue which she spoke fairly well.

"Greetings, my Lord Prince… Lady Tirathiel," she said, inclining her head politely. "Allow me to show you to the rooms that have been prepared for you. Lord Gildor should be returning in the evening hours."

"So we have been told," said Andrahar, not even trying to hide his displeasure. "One would think that the Lord of Edhellond would give the Prince of Dor-en-Ernil, who is supposed to be his friend and ally, the courtesy to be at home when said Prince pays him a farewell visit."

Imrahil shot his friend a murderous look – Gildor and his customs were about the only topic of heated disagreement between the two of them – but Vorondis looked at the fuming Armsmaster with unwavering calm.

"This is not the only farewell Lord Gildor has to speak, Master Andrahar," she said. "Ever since the end of the war, he had been travelling our small realm to visit every single homestead, every little settlement, to say his goodbyes to his subjects. You might not understand this, being a mortal, but many of Edhellond's people have chosen to remain in Middle-earth, and thus they will never see our Lord again, For though the Elves are meant to last 'til the end of Arda, once we sail to the West, we have no means to return, and will be separated from our friends and family forever."

Andrahar felt a little ashamed, regretting already that he had lashed out to this quiet woman who had no part in his long quarrel with Gildor… a decades-old quarrel, based on ill-hidden jealousy on the Armsmaster's side.

"How come that you know my name?" he asked. "And what may be yours?"

"I am called Vorondis," she answered simply. Seeing Andrahar's blank looks, she added, "It means 'steadfast woman' in the Elven tongue. As for yours, I know it from the tales Lord Gildor sometimes chooses to tell. He finds your private little war rather… amusing, it seems."

"The things Elves find _amusing_ never fail to amaze me," commented Lady Tirathiel wryly, ere Andrahar could get another fit of fury.

"I imagine it can be strange for you at times," Vorondis admitted. "But you have to understand that Lord Gildor has walked the earth for more than six thousand years, and I am not much younger myself. 'Tis a long time, even for Elves, and all that we have seen and gone through already has changed us greatly. Our eyes have turned towards the past, and little of the present still moves us. Unlike the Silvan folk, whose bond to this earth is stronger than aught else, we do no longer belong here. And even the woodland Elves will fade and perish eventually, leaving all these lands to mortal Men." She gave Andrahar a long, searching look that was hard to interpret. "In a sense, you have already won your quarrel against our Lord, Master Andrahar. He will leave, soon. You will remain, as long as mortal nature and the fortune of war allows. In the end, Middle-earth _will_ belong to you and the likes of you."

Long silence followed her words, the inevitable change of the world they had known weighing heavily on their hearts. To his surprise, Andrahar found that he liked this woman. She reminded him of Melpomaen, Imrahil's head scribe, who had submitted to his high age but a few years ago. Melpomaen, too, was said to have some Elven blood in his veins; mayhap that was why he had watched the world with the same reserved wisdom. Or it was the trade that he had shared with the scholarly Elf? Who could tell for certain?

"But I am neglecting my duties," Vorondis finally said apologetically. "My Lord Prince, Lady Tirathiel, I took the freedom to give you the chambers you always use when in Edhellond. I also assumed that Master Andrahar would want to stay close to you, Prince Imrahil, thus I gave him the chamber next to yours. And I was so free as to put Prince Erchirion and the Steward of Gondor into adjoining rooms. The other Knights will be placed in the guest wing. I hope these arrangements are to your satisfaction."

No-one had any objections; thus Vorondis called for a chambermaid (whose name was apparently Uruviel) to lead the guests to their rooms. Ere he would enter the house, however, Faramir turned to her for a moment.

"Lady Vorondis, do you believe that I might be allowed to visit the libraries later?"

For the first time, she actually smiled. "Why, certainly, my Lord Steward. But there is no need to call me 'Lady', as I am none. Just 'Vorondis' will be fine. I am an Elf of common birth, after all."

"In that case feel free to call me Faramir," he offered. But Vorondis shook her head.

"That would be inappropriate, my Lord. Elven or mortal, nobility is nobility and should be treated as such. I shall send one of the scribes to escort you to the library, once you have rested a little," she added, already on her way to leave.

Faramir shot his uncle a bewildered look, but Imrahil merely shrugged. "No use to insist, lad. I could never convince her to call me by my name, either. She is a very modest person."

"Unlike the Lord she serves," Andrahar murmured under his breath.

But he did not take the keen Elven ears under consideration, it seemed. Vorondis turned back from the doorstep with a quick, fluid move, her friendly eyes growing ice cold.

"I would appreciate if you did not speak in this manner of Lord Gildor in his own house," she said coolly. "Whatever you may think of his demeanour, he still _is_ the grandson of Finrod Felagund, the King of Nargothrond, and has fought the Darkness for six millennia. You do not like him? Fine, that is your right. He is not particularly fond of you himself. But as long as you are a guest in his house, you will speak of him – and _to_ him – with respect."

"Or what?" asked Andrahar with an arrogant little smile. Vorondis held his look without as much as a flinch.

"Or else I shall ask Prince Imrahil to leave Edhellond, with his whole escort, and I am certain that he would respect my request."

"I would," Imrahil nodded seriously. "Do not make me to leave, Andra, I beg you. You of all people should know how much this last visit means to me."

"And you know all too well that your Elven friend and I never got along too well. Mayhap you should not have brought me with you. You never did it before."

"And I will never have the chance to do so again," pointed out Imrahil a little sadly. "I only ask you to restrain yourself a little, so that I can take my leave properly. Is that so much?"

Andrahar sighed in exasperation. "Imri, I would do anything you ask me, and you know that. I just fail to understand why you feel the need to drag _me_ along. I do not belong here, nor have I ever wanted to come to this place."

"You have been with me since my youth, Andra," the Prince replied softly, "in good times and bad times, through joys and sorrows, unwaveringly – except when I came to Edhellond. This was the only part of my life you could never share – for this one time, I wish to change that. Would you humour me and behave? It will not last long anyway. I can already feel the changes that will come to Edhellond, soon,"

"And you are right," said Vorondis quietly. "Once Lord Gildor and his court, so small as it might be, leave these shores, there will be naught of the royalty of the Noldor left. 'Tis said that Master Elrond, too, prepares to leave Imladris already, and that the Lady of the Golden Wood shall accompany him. The summer of the Elves of Middle-earth had turned to autumn already with the fall of Gil-galad, and now our winter has grown close. Even the Silvan folk, not willing to leave their beloved forests, will be gone sooner or later – there is no power on this side of the Sea that could hold back our fading any longer."

"Are you leaving with Lord Gildor, too?" Lady Tirathiel asked. Vorondis nodded.

"There is nothing that would keep me here anymore. I have only stayed this long for my brother's sake. But now all Noldor in the service of our Lord are preparing to leave, and finally Falathar, too, has made his decision. Our future, if we still have one, lies beyond the Sea. And I look forward to be reunited with my parents again."

TBC (eventually)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Sept. 6, which is shortly after Théoden's funeral. I give the name of the month both in Quenya and in Sindarin, since a Noldorin Elf-Lord would use the former while a Dúnadan Prince of the South the latter. According to the Appendices only the Dúnedain used the Sindarin months' names.

(2) Sea-ward Tower

(3) Sea-spire

(4) The description of Edhellond's seaside view has been borrowed from the Dol Amroth role-playing site, with slight modifications.

(5) A forest settlement near Edhellond, where – as established in "Innocence" – Haldir's sister, Fimbrethil lived with her family.


	2. Part 2

**SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS 2**

**by Soledad__**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Master Andrahar, Lady Tirathiel, Liahan and Esteven belong to Isabeau of Greenlea and are used with her gracious consent. Enedrion, Falathar, Vorondis and all other Edhellond people belong to me. 

**Dedication:** This particular chapter is for Cirdan (the writer), who came up with the pet Sea-turtle of Círdan (the character) in one of her stories. It is in the first chapter of "The Tales of the Falathrim".

As always, heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

PART 2 

The guests were shown to their rooms, and after having a short rest and some refreshments, a young-looking, dark-haired and grey-eyed Elf came to Faramir's chambers.

"_Mae govannen_, my Lord Steward," he said in accent-free Westron and bowed slightly. "I am Eriol, one of the scribes in Lord Gildor's library. Mistress Vorondis sent me to show you the way, assuming you have rested sufficiently."

Faramir jumped to his feet eagerly. He had changed into less formal clothes and felt more like an excited young scholar than the Steward of Gondor at the moment.

"I would be happy to go," he said, "but would you mind speaking in Elvish to me? My Sindarin is probably not what you are used to – which is the very reason I desire to improve it – but I will try to do my best."

The scribe gave him a good, thorough look – and smiled.

"I have been told that the blood of Númenor runs deep in you, my Lord Steward," he said, "and I can see now that the rumours were true. I will gladly speak to you in my native tongue, as I am a Sinda whose ancestors have been keepers of knowledge and lore ever since the fall of Thingol's realm."

With that, he enlaced his arm with Faramir's and swept the young Steward away to the library, where Vorondis and the Lady Tirathiel were sitting in a secluded corner already, engrossed in deep conversation.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Imrahil had managed to talk Artanor, Gildor's chief horse-master into showing Liahan and Esteven, the two other Swan Knights accompanying them, the stables with Gildor's magnificent horses. Not even the steeds of Dol Amroth could match these wondrous creatures, whose ancestors, just like the ones of Elrond's horses, had been brought from the Blessed Realm by the Noldorin exiles, and the two knights were happier than children in a sweets shop.

Knowing his knights occupied and in the best possible hands, Imrahil felt free to roam the streets of Edhellond in Andrahar's company, just as he used to do in his youth.

"Come with me, Andra," he said, rubbing his hands in delight, "I shall take you to the Place of Trade, and later we will hit the taverns together. You will love it!"

Andrahar gave him a sceptical eyebrow but followed him nevertheless. As he had assumed, the Place of Trade turned out to be a large marketplace between the harbour and the living area of the town, adjoining the Place of Festivals. The latter one was encircled by wondrous, fragrant evergreen trees that had been brought there from Númenor, more than an Age ago, and in the middle of it musicians sat, playing on flutes and Silvan lutes for their own pleasure – and that of those who had gathered to listen to them.

The marketplace itself, however, looked not all that different from the markets in a mortal town. Tents and small huts stood in a loose circle, offering an amazing variety of fruits, bread, vegetable dishes, pottery, carvings, woven cloths, tools, wine, mead and whatever one could wish. The merchants were chatting amiably with their customers and among each other, but not so loud that the music coming from the Place of Festivals could not have been heard. Some of them recognized Imrahil and greeted him in a friendly manner.

The two of them were offered small treats as they walked over the place: pieces of fresh or dried fruit, honeybread figures, seedcake, whatever happened to be at hand. Imrahil accepted the offerings in his usual, charming manner, laughed and jested with the Elven merchants in their own tongue (of which Andrahar understood more than he would admit even under torture), quoted Elvish poetry to the women, earning fond and forgiving smiles in exchange and generally seemed to have the time of his life.

Andrahar was less enthusiastic, even though he tried to make a friendly face. This market, though more lively than he would have expected from the aloof Firstborn, lacked the harsh colours, strong spices and vitalizing noise of the bazaars of his childhood. Nice as it was, it seemed somehow too pale, too quiet, too – elusive in his eyes, his mind involuntarily connecting the word "market" with the colourful crowd, the heavy scents and loud bargaining he had been used to in his past. Four years he had spent in the bazaar of Umbar, running wild between the carpet-walled tents and lushly decorated carriages, breathing in the spicy vapours of the meals cooked right on the street, on open hearths in the big copper dishes and the scented smoke of water pipes…

A hesitant touch on his forearm brought him back from his childhood memories. He had to restrain the urge to lash out instinctively. 'Twould be no good if he killed an Elf while merely reacting. Glancing into the direction the touch had come from, he looked into the pointed little face of a very small Elf, most likely a child. The boy – for he looked not a day older than a six-year-old mortal lad – had bright, greenish-brown eyes like freshly polished chestnuts, and instead of the braids of the adults he wore a topknot of the same auburn hair most people in Edhellond seemed to have. He wore brown leggings, light, ankle-high boots and a green tunic – and a carefully polished fang of some carnivorous animal on a leather thong around his neck.

"What do you want, little one?" Andrahar asked, shooing away the ridiculous idea that the child was probably older than he. Elves aged very slowly, 'twas said.

The boy looked up into his face earnestly. "Are you Master Andrahar?" he asked in a barely accented Westron.

"I am indeed," said Andrahar surprised, "but who might be you, and how come that you have heard of me?"

The boy shrugged. "Everyone here knows who you are: the shield-mate of Prince Imrahil. They say you come of Harad. Is it true?"

"It is," Andrahar nodded. The boy tilted his head to one side in a strange, bird-like manner, doubt written in his thin face.

"You do not look evil," he decided. "How can you come from Harad, then?"

"The places where we come from do not make us evil, elfling," Imrahil, having overheard their little discussion, chose to answer for his friend. "'Tis the darkness in our hearts or the wrongs we do – those are the things that make us evil."

He stooped and swept up the boy into his arms, so that he could see into that earnest little face. "Do you have a name, elfling?" he asked.

"I do," the boy answered reluctantly, "but I do not like it."

"Why not?" asked Imrahil in surprise. The boy scowled.

"'Tis silly. Only maids have names like mine."

"Ai, come on, it cannot be so bad," Imrahil cajoled with the vast experience of a four times over father.

"Not bad?" the boy blurted out like someone who had nursed an old pain far too long. "Would _you_ like to be called _Nenmír_? Like some kind of fish?"

"I find 'water-jewel' a great name," said Imrahil calmly. "And do the fish not glitter like living gemstones whenever Anor's rays touch the water surface?"

"They do," the elfling agreed, wriggling in his arms, "but I still do not like it. It sounds weird. Put me down! I am not a baby anymore!"

"Nay," Imrahil agreed, "you are a brave and curious elfling, who is not afraid to talk to strangers and ask them questions. That is all right here in Edhellond, but I do hope you are not doing so when you are abroad."

"I am not a fool!" the boy replied, clearly insulted now. "I have wandered with Lord Gildor's company from Imladris to the Grey Havens and then sailed back here with him, to Lady Arwen's wedding!"

"You know the Queen?" Imrahil seemed properly impressed.

"Of course I do," the elfling answered proudly. "I was born in Imladris, when the Company spent _hrív_ there."

"My, but you are well-travelled indeed," Imrahil nodded. "Still, are you certain that you should run free all over the market by yourself? Would your parents not miss you?"

The small face darkened with sorrow.

"I have no parents," the elfling said, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "My father was slain by the siege of Imladris, and my mother died when I was very little. I live in Lord Gildor's house now. He will take me to Elvenhome with him, beyond the Sea, where I may see my parents again – when Mandos releases them."

"In that case, I think you should return home, elfling," Imrahil advised. "Mistress Vorondis and the others would be most upset if they looked for you in vain."

The boy considered this for a moment.

"I do not wish to upset Mistress Vorondis," he finally decided. "She is a nice lady. I shall go home now."

With that, he turned around and ran away without a further word, avoiding collisions with the people in the marketplace with great skill. Imrahil looked after him thoughtfully.

"I know that Imladris was besieged shortly before the war," he murmured, "but it is different when you actually meet an Elven war orphan. In the end, our fates do not run all that differently, I deem."

"Save the fact that they can come back from the death?" asked Andrahar. Imrahil shrugged.

"I am told that could take hundreds of years – and no-one returns unchanged. Besides, they cannot leave Valinor, once reborn. Lord Glorfindel is the only one who has ever been sent back, for he was needed in the great wars. But no longer. There will be no way back across the Sea."

"And you are getting whiny again, like always when it comes to the Elves," replied Andrahar, slightly bored. "I believe you promised to show me the taverns, did you not?"

"I did," agreed Imrahil, smiling again. "Come with me, I know a place where mortal customers are most welcome."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The place in question was in the harbour, and wore the rather unusual name of _Círdan's Sea-Turtle_. It was obviously visited by mariners – Elven _and_ mortal ones alike. As Elves of all kinds love light and open places, the wall looking to the Sea was actually reduced to a few slender pillars, making the whole tavern look like one big, open veranda with a magnificent view of the Sea. Long oak-wood tables stood in the inside, the sharp, yellow wine was served in cups big enough to be mistaken for tankards, and various sorts of excellent seafood were offered in heaped plates. Most of it was dried fish and eels and sea-plants, fried crabs and squid rings and smoked sea-birds, served with seeded flat-bread and strange, spicy sauces based on fish or clams.

As could be expected, Imrahil found old friends within moments, and now they were sitting in the company of a dozen _very_ merry Elves and a few thoroughly drunken sailors of Anfalas who had come with a merchant ship that same morning. Andrahar decided to be careful with his wine, as Imrahil was obviously determined to let his shields down. Thus, he had to be vigilant for both of them. This did not hinder him in enjoying the delicious food, however, and it surprised him to realise that some of the sauces were spicy enough even for his Southern tastes.

The talking became merrier and merrier with every new round of wine, and soon the Elven mariners were clasping each other's shoulders, swinging in a rhythm that imitated the never-resting waves of the Sea rather nicely, and singing the song of Círdan's wondrous Sea-turtle in their fair, clear voices in perfect harmony, despite their intoxicated state. The song was very funny, even Andrahar had to admit that, and the Elves sang it in Westron, for their mortal guests' sakes, though, as one of them pointed out, it lost a lot in translation. Imrahil was laughing 'til tears of merriment started to run down his cheeks, and – having heard the original many times in his youth – he agreed with the Elves that it was much, much funnier in Sindarin.

"Did this Círdan truly have a pet Sea-turtle?" asked Andrahar doubtfully. He knew, of course, who Círdan was. One could not live near Imrahil for half a century and _not_ pick up such things, but still…

"He did," a deep, amused voice replied from behind them in perfect, accent-free Westron. "I have seen the faithful beast with my very eyes, several times – it was a truly wondrous creature."

They all turned back to the entrance and their eyes fell upon the regal figure of Gildor Inglorion, standing some two feet away in all his golden glory. Unlike other times when Andrahar had seen him, he was clad in white and royal blue, richly embroidered with gold, and wore the emblem of his House upon his chest. His heavy mass of golden hair was braided in some intricate pattern, like a coronet of some sort, and a golden collar, set with colourful jewels – the product of extraordinary smithcraft – adorned his neck. He was unarmed, save from two beautiful knives in their richly decorated sheets that hung from his belt, and he was accompanied by a young, dark-haired, grey-eyed Elf who kept staring at him in naked adoration.

"Imrahil!" he cried, embracing the Prince of Dol Amroth in a brotherly manner. "Welcome to Edhellond once again. How like you to arrive when I am out of town. But I knew I would find you here – this has always been your favourite place." Then he turned to his young companion. "Enedrion, call for another round, and bring cups for me and yourself. I am buying for everyone, in the honour of our friend's visit."

"I knew he could speak Westron just as well as everyone else," growled Andrahar under his breath. "I have known all the time…"

"Why, certainly," replied Gildor, unperturbed. "Just as you can understand more of _our_ tongue than you would be willing to admit. Ah, Enedrion, here you are," he added, throwing a friendly arm across the shoulder of the young Elf who almost swooned from his touch. There was definitely more than hero worship – and it was very much one-sided, if Gildor's tolerant smile was any indication.

They drank more wine, and the Elven mariners begged Gildor for the true tale of Círdan's Sea-turtle. After the second cup Gildor gave in and spun a fascinating and very funny story about the huge, wise and wondrous beast and its visits through the Sea-gate of Círdan's palace. He was a surprisingly good storyteller and obviously enjoyed himself immensely. As the tale went on and on, the sailors of Anfalas passed out from the strong wine, the Elven mariners were slowly becoming drunk themselves, and even Imrahil's eyes started sparkling unnaturally brightly, though he could hold his wine better than most Men, due to much… exercise in his youth.

Seeing this, Gildor ended his tale with a smooth turn and rose from his seat.

"'Tis time for us to return to my house, I think," he said, throwing his soft leather purse to his young aide. "Pay for the wine, Enedrion. We are going home."

Imrahil was not too drunk to catch the double meaning of the Elf-lords words. Seeing the sudden understanding in his eyes, Gildor nodded slowly.

"That is true, my friend. We are ready to go home."

TBC


	3. Part 3

**SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS 2**

**by Soledad__**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Master Andrahar, Lady Tirathiel, Liahan and Esteven belong to Isabeau of Greenlea and are used with her gracious consent. Enedrion, Falathar, Vorondis and all other Edhellond people belong to me. 

More about Harad and the beliefs of Andrahar's people can be found in my other story, "Face of the Enemy". However, I must point out that these are not canon facts but have been made up by me.

As always, heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

PART 3 

They made their way back to Gildor's home. It took them quite some time, as they were often stopped by the town folk who wanted a word with their lord, to greet him upon his return or to speak their farewells. He was obviously beloved and respected among his subjects, and the rumours that he would be leaving soon (_soon_ as Elves counted time) saddened the people greatly.

He took the time to talk to each and every one of them, speaking in their own, strange tongue that not even Imrahil could understand, so different it was from the noble and elegant Sindarin he had been taught to speak – and to love. Yet Gildor spoke it as fluently as he spoke Westron, and he even laughed and jested with the simple folk, to Andrahar's surprise. He had only seen the Elf-Lord being aloof and haughty and even downright rude at times, particularly to him. This was a Gildor he never thought he would see.

But eventually they reached Gildor's house nevertheless, and found it as full of excitement as it had been quiet upon their arrival. News about their Lord's arrival had already reached the Elves of the house, and preparations for a copious evening meal were running at high speed.

Having just recently returned from Calenbel with his Lord, Istimor, the seneschal of Gildor's house, was overseeing the preparations personally. As Gildor usually spent years upon years on the road, the number of house servants was rather small. Thus the members of the Wandering Company, who stayed in the house anyway, readily helped decorating the Dining Hall and laying the tables.

Most of them were rather young, at least in Elven terms, especially two lovely, dark-haired maids whose names were apparently Almáriel and Irilde. The braiding of their hair revealed that they were still under age, though they seemed grown enough for the mortal eye. Little Nenmír was there, too, zigzagging delightedly among the adults, carrying high piles of plates with great skill without dropping any of them. The Elfling carried out his task with the adorable concentration of every child given something important to do, but he still found the time to give Andrahar a shy grin and a quick wink, in a manner that reminded the Armsmaster very much of a little mortal boy called Faramir…

However, it was Istimor, the seneschal, also called "the wise" among the household (according to Imrahil), who caught Andrahar's interest most. He was a tall, willowy Noldo, raven-haired and grey-eyed, much like the pure-blooded Dúnedain in Dor-en-Ernil but in his eyes the memories of many thousand years were mirrored. The same ageless wisdom shone in the eyes of his wife, Dinithel, with whom he shared the duties in and around the house.

"I think they are the only Elves in Edhellond who are older than even Gildor," murmured Imrahil, "if we leave some truly ancient Nandor from the Wandering Company out of consideration. 'Tis said that Istimor, though born in Middle-earth already, worked for the seneschal of the kings Finrod Felagund and Orodreth of Nargothrond as a young aide. And Dinithel was born in Nargothrond, before its fall. Though how they managed to escape from there, I have never been told."

Andrahar frowned. "That would make them at least seven thousand years old!"

Imrahil nodded. "At the very least, aye. Mayhap even older."

Andrahar looked at the smooth, ageless faces of the two Elves – and shook his head. "They do not look a day older than thirty. Say what you want, Imri – 'tis not natural."

Imrahil laughed and walked across the Hall to great the Elven minstrels who were tuning their instruments in a corner, opposite the main entrance. Andrahar fell back a little – not even Imrahil could make him partake in a discussion about Elven music – and watched the eager activity with one eye and Imrahil with the other.

After a while, however, he felt that he was being watched himself. He looked around to find the source of the unsettling feeling, and his gaze met with that of a dark and slender Elf with the rich auburn hair of the Silvan folk, clad in the rough green and brown garb of a woodsman. The Elf looked a little more… rustic than most people Andrahar had seen so far in Gildor's household, and had the same chestnut-like eyes as little Nenmír.

"Forgive me for staring at you," the Elf said with an implied bow, "I meant not to be rude. But these are beautiful knives you are carrying. The pattern on the handles is unknown for me; it must be Haradric work, I deem."

"It is," replied Andrahar curtly. "And you would be…?"

"_Ai_," the Elf actually seemed embarrassed, "forgive me my manners, or more so the lack thereof. We are so used to know each other here… I am Terendul, a hunter and tracker by trade."

"One of those who travel with Gildor's company all across Middle-earth?" asked Andrahar. The Elf shrugged.

"Sometimes. But most of the time, I take care of the woods around the town. Look after the beasts and the birds and the trees."

"You must have lost your way, then," said Andrahar. Terendul laughed.

"Nay, I have not. I came to see my betrothed. And to ask Lord Gildor to perform our wedding ceremony ere he leaves."

"So, you do not go with him?" Andrahar was surprised. Somehow he had expected Gildor's whole household to follow their Lord. Terendul shook his head.

"We of the Silvan folk rarely feel the call of the Sea, and I for my part am grateful for that. I would hate to have to choose between the Sea and my trees; and I am certain that Legolas of Ithilien hates it, too. Alas that the longing has been awakened in his heart! He is a great Lord of his people, and he would become a strong and wise king, I deem, just like his father. But he is of Sindarin blood, and the Sea-longing has always been the greatest peril for the Sindars' hearts."

Hearing that, a thought occurred to Andrahar – one that he had never pondered over before.

"Who will rule Edhellond, once Gildor has left?" he asked with genuine interest.

"The Town Council, just like before, I deem," said Terendul with a shrug. "Lord Gildor never meddled in the day-to-day affairs. He was on the road too long and too often for that. The only decisions he has ever kept for himself were the ones concerning warfare."

This surprised Andrahar again, for he had thought Gildor to be some sort of tyrant who ruled his small realm with an iron fist. Seeing his surprise, Terendul laughed.

"We of the Silvan folk have never had kings or princes of our own," he said. "And though our brethren in the Greenwood and in Lórien accepted the Sindarin princes of Doriath as their leaders, we usually prefer to live free, on our own merry ways. The Town Council is made up of the heads of every guild that is represented in Edhellond; they are all equals, which leads to quarrels at times, but we like it that way and Lord Gildor does not mind."

"How many…?" Andrahar trailed off, unsure how he could phrase the question politely.

"Seventeen, not counting Ainimor, the head of the Council," answered the Elf readily enough; it seemed not a big secret. "You will meet them tonight, as this will be a big feast: the beginning of the Harvest festivities."

"So, _that_ is why Imrahil chose this very time to pay Edhellond his last visit," murmured Andrahar, understanding finally dawning on him. Telendur smiled.

"He has celebrated many a Harvest with us – I am not surprised that he wanted to witness the last one our Lord would attend to. Even if he would be always welcome among us. He and his family have been Elf-friends from the beginning of their House."

Andrahar nodded absently – that was nothing new for him – and watched Imrahil for a while again. The Prince was talking to the Elven minstrels eagerly, not only with words but with gestures as well, something Andrahar had not seen since their youth. In fact, Imrahil looked twenty years younger than during the war.

"Is this truly the very last time?" the Armsmaster asked, feeling suddenly the profound loss of his friend. Terendul sighed.

"Oh, Harvest will be celebrated as long as there is a single Elf in Edhellond left. But when Gildor Inglorion leaves these shores, an era of our town – our entire little realm – will be over, forever. Gildor has been our Lord for the whole Third Age… _and_ for most of the Second Age as well. Life here, though safer it might be after the defeat of Sauron, will never be the same without him."

Their conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by the Lord of Edhellond himself, who entered the Dining Hall to greet his household, followed by the ever-present Enedrion. He remained standing in the doorframe for several heartbeats' time, watching his people with an oddly fond expression on his pale, usually cold face. 'Twas little Nenmír who finally spotted him of all people. The elfling put down the pile of plates he was carrying rather ungently on the nearest table and darted to their Lord with a delighted shriek.

"Uncle Gildor!"

To Andrahar's utter amazement, Gildor actually _laughed_ and swept up the boy in his arms. Unlike with Imrahil, this time Nenmír would not even _think_ of protesting, just beamed at the Elf-Lord and grinned widely.

"_Mae govannen_, little one," said Gildor and switched to the Silvan dialect, asking something from the elfling in a teasing manner. Nenmír became beet red, but his eyes shone with pride. Gildor laughed again, swung the elfling up onto his shoulders and grabbed the thin little legs dangling before his chest to keep Nenmír from falling off. Then he came into the Hall, mingling with the members of his household, talking and laughing with them.

Terendul watched Andrahar's astonishment with a smile. In fact, he seemed a rather merry Elf who smiled and laughed a lot.

"He is very different when in his own, our Lord is," he said. "I presume, you have only seen his cold and haughty side so far. He can be that way; even downright cruel, if he chooses. But here, on this side of the Sea, we are the only true family he has."

"What of the other side…?"

"He has parents, I am told. And grandparents, of course. And a sister, too, assuming she has been released from the Halls already. And a niece, the Lady Aquiel, who waits for him in Mithlond. But this has been his home for a very long time. We shall miss him very much once he is gone."

Andrahar shook his head, watching Gildor and his devoted aide strolling around the Hall and making pleasant conversation with the Elves of the house. He could hardly believe he was seeing the same arrogant, infuriating Elf-Lord who had been the bane of his existence, ever since he had set foot in Dol Amroth. Gildor caught his look, and some of the usual coldness glittered in those icy, blue-grey eyes of his for a moment… then it vanished again. Then, unexpectedly, the Lord of Edhellond walked across the Hall and held right before him.

"Master Andrahar," he said in a manner that was almost friendly, "can you spare a moment? I have an elfling here who is most eager to hear about the Great Dragon of Harad. I deem you would be better suited to tell the tale than I am."

The amused glint in his eyes revealed that he knew all too well that the horrid tales of Harad, told about the cold cruelty of the _pairiki_, as the Haradrim called the Elves, named _him_ after that very same mythical dragon – and that he even found the comparison flattering. Once again, Andrahar felt he almost irresistible urge to throttle him. But the famous discipline of the Swan Knights won again.

"I would be delighted to do so," the Armsmaster replied, his dark eyes burning dangerously, "but I fear there is too much noise here to tell any story properly."

"You could go to the orchard," Gildor offered, barely hiding his amusement. "Or to the library, if you dare to face Mistress Vorondis again. As long as you remember to join us here at the ringing of the evening bells…"

"I shall see to that," Terendul intervened smoothly, ere the two old adversaries could launch into full fighting mode again. "The Great Dragon of Harad is a story I would love to hear myself… by your leave, my Lord. I wonder if it is any different from the tales about Smaug the Golden."

"Why, certainly, go ahead," replied Gildor, putting little Nenmír down again. "I shall speak to you in the early morn, then. Tonight I will be occupied with other things. Go with Terendul, little one. I shall tell Master Istimor that I gave your leave."

"Let us go to the orchard," Terendul suggested, after Gildor had left them alone. "'Tis beautiful in this season, and I know just the right place, where we shall be undisturbed."

But Andrahar shook his head. "I cannot. Not ere Liahan and Esteven come back. I most not leave the Prince alone."

Telendur gave him an amused look. "You truly believe he would be in peril among _us_?"

"What I believe or not matters little," said Andrahar stubbornly. "I am his shadow. I cannot leave him unprotected."

"He will _not_ be alone," spoke Faramir, stepping up to them. "I shall remain here with him, as Mistress Vorondis threw me out of the library to close it for the night. Go on, Uncle Andra, visit the orchard – it is a marvel – and tell your tale."

Andrahar hesitated a little, but finally the wide, begging eyes of the elfling made him give in. Thus Telendur led him to the walled orchard of Gildor's house, and they sat down on one of the stone benches that were still warm from the autumn sun. Lying in a particularly well-protected corner of the coastal region, Edhellond's climate was surprisingly mild, thus the most intriguingly exotic fruits grew with little tending in Gildor's orchard. Fruits that could not be found even in the warmest spots of Gondor: grapes as long and thick as a man's thumb; peaches of the size of a fist; pomegranates; figs that were red in the inside like a strong Haradric wine and as sweet as a kiss; and even oranges – something Andrahar had never seen growing outside his old home.

There were, of course, more common sorts of fruit as well: golden apples, ruddy pears, red plums and many others. Looking around with more than a little envy, Andrahar had a hard time understanding why Gildor would ever feel the need to leave this wondrous place.

The elfling tugged on his sleeve again, demanding, "Tell me about the dragon!"

Andrahar smiled. The southern flair of the orchard brought back early childhood memories – from a time when those memories had still been pleasant. From the distance of half a century (and more) the face of his mother had become blurred, but her gentle voice was still alive in his heart – with the tales she had told him as a young boy at bedtime.

"Very well," he said, falling back into the tone he had used with Imrahil's children when they had still been little. "You must know, little one, that Harad is not _one_ land, but a loose alliance of small and larger kingdoms, all of which usually contain a big city and several smaller settlements around it."

"Like Edhellond?" asked the elfling innocently.

"In a way," nodded Andrahar, though nothing could be more different from Edhellond's serene peace than the loud and harsh life he had known as a child. "Only much, much bigger. Now, the realm where I used to live is called Bakshir, and its chief city's name is Bashidra. Bashidra is hot and humid most over the year, as it lies near a big lake, but most of the realm is wide, open savannah, and its people are warriors, horse-breeders or merchants. Only around the great lake _Bolotin_ are fields where we can grow food."

"You must be very poor, then," said Nenmír, focusing on his words intently. Andrahar shook his head.

"Nay, for the savannahs can feed the herds of horses and sheep, and our merchants are quite skilled," he decided to leave out the part where the _dshigit_s of Bakshir routinely fell over other realms for food and other sorts of prey. "But on the eastern border of Bakshir, there lies a chain of steep, naked mountains of golden-hued stone: the _Dahhák_. Very tall these mountains are, and their cliffs are ragged like the scales of a dragon, and they can nearly touch the skies. Thus some people say, the _Dahhák_ is not a mountain at all, but a huge, golden dragon."

"Does it breathe fire, like Mount Doom?" asked the elfling, his eyes wide with fear and excitement. Andrahar hid his smile.

"Nay; but sometimes, when the summer season is very hot, it breathes arid smoke; and they say that the _Dahhák_ eats the rainclouds above its head. And when it does so, the next rainy season will not come. The savannahs cannot live without rain; the heat scorches the grass, and the animals die, for there is nothing to eat and no water for them. And when the antelopes, horses and sheep die, people die, too." Andrahar paused, remembering the despair and bitter poverty of his people, every time when the rain had not come.

"Thus people hate and fear the _Dahhák_," he continued, remembering the grim old tales. "And sometimes, when they are truly desperate, they make pilgrimages to it and lay offerings before its feet, so that it would not eat the rainclouds and would not hold back the rain. For without the rain, nothing can live in our realms."

He was careful enough _not_ to mention that sometimes these offerings included a firstborn son or a pure maiden, as-yet untouched by a lover. These were not the things he wanted others to know about his people.

"Does that help?" the elfling asked with a frown. Andrahar shook his head sadly.

"Nay, little one. You see, the _Dahhák_ is not truly a dragon. Just a mountain, with a heart of stone."

"Oh," the elfling looked decidedly disappointed. He must have expected a different story: a merrier one, perhaps, with heroes and great deeds in it. "'Tis a shame that it is no true dragon. If it were a dragon, you could slay it, as Eärendil has slain Ancalagon the Black, and your people could have the rain they need in every _loa_."

Andrahar nodded, familiar with the Elven name of the seasonal year. Imrahil's family often spoke Sindarin at home, after all.

"I wish it were so, little one," he said quietly. "I wish it were so. But some dragons cannot be slain, even by the greatest heroes, I fear."

TBC


	4. Part 4

**SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS 2**

**by Soledad__**

**Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.**

Master Andrahar, Lady Tirathiel, Liahan and Esteven belong to Isabeau of Greenlea and are used with her gracious consent. Enedrion, Falathar, Vorondis and all other Edhellond people belong to me. 

**Rating: PG-13, for this part. Some concepts are not for young children.**

As always, heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

PART 4 

At the same time Gildor and Imrahil were sitting in the Elf-Lord's study, sipping _very carefully on some excellent hazelnut liquor (as Imrahil had already had too much wine) and munching on small pieces of sweetmeats the recipe of which reached back to the days of Eregion._

"'Tis hard to believe that there will be a time when the House of Dol Amroth will have to go on without your friendship and patronage," said Imrahil thoughtfully. "You have been here since the day Elendil gave these lands my ancestors…"

"... and before," added Gildor with a slight smile. Imrahil rolled his eyes.

"I know _that. But it feels weird to think back __before the time of my first known ancestor."_

Gildor nodded slowly. "I know the feeling. Although Finrod Felagund was my own grandfather, 'tis hard to think of him as aught else but the heroic King of Nargothrond. I wonder if he has been released from the Halls already – I would like to meet him. He was everything I wanted to become when I was young."

"You had the gifts for the same greatness," said Imrahil. "'Tis not your fault that there was no chance to become a great Elven king in our lesser times."

"Unless one decides to dwell in the woods with the Silvan folk like Thranduil," replied Gildor with melancholy. "But I could not do that. There has always been too much _wanderlust_ in me for that. I believe the life on the road suited me well. After the fall of Eregion there was no place that could have hold me for long. Not even Edhellond, though this used to be the only true home I have ever had in Middle-earth."

"Will you be able to live in the peace of Aman at all?" asked Imrahil.

"It will not be easy," Gildor admitted, "and I would even be tempted to remain in Middle-earth, if not for _him_."

"_Him being who?" inquired the Prince. "In all my life, you never told me who the one is you was bound to."_

"'Twas not your business," replied Gildor dismissively. "I have seen every generation of Dol Amroth be born, grow up and go… wherever Men go after they die. None of them was privy to my life before their time."

Imrahil shook his head in tolerant amusement. "You are _not_ an easy Elf to like, Gildor Inglorion."

"That is true," the Elf-Lord agreed wryly; then he added with a wicked grin. "Which did not keep every generation of you from falling in love with me. Fortunately, you got over it just as quickly again… unlike that poor Enedrion."

Imrahil smiled. "Still very smitten with you, is he not?"

"Just as your Master Andrahar is still longing for you," shot back Gildor mercilessly. Seeing Imrahil's baffled face, he shrugged. "Oh, he covers it well enough. I doubt that many would see it. But I know that particular look on one's face. Enedrion looks at me like that all the time – just less discretely."

"What will become of Enedrion, once you have returned to the West?" asked Imrahil. Gildor sighed.

"I know not. I hope he will finally get over me, once he is reunited with his family. Once he is not around me all the time."

"You should not have encouraged him," said Imrahil accusingly. Gildor shot him a dirty look.

"I did not _encourage him. I only took him to my bed a few times, during the festivals, when he was too miserable to bear. 'Twas still better than letting him fade away, dying from broken heart."_

"And what will happen to you if you return to the West, just to find out that your… bondmate has not waited for you? Will you die from broken heart, too?"

"Your Master Andrahar would say that I have no heart at all," said Gildor with a certain bitterness in his voice, "or that it is too hard to be broken. But you know how it works with us, Elves. Once bound, we are in it for good."

"Even there are exceptions," pointed out Imrahil, "or else you would not be here."

"True," admitted Gildor, "and it _is_ possible, of course, that the Halls of Mandos have changed Tyelpe too much to be able to return to me. After all, Glorfindel has returned from the halls with his once all-consuming love for Idril Celebrindal faded to memory. Granted, his love had been unrequited and his bond one-sided, so that it would not be binding in the eyes of the Valar, but still…"

Imrahil gave no answer. He sat in utter shock, pieces of information, slipped during the long years of his friendship with Gildor suddenly sliding into place with an almost audible _click_ and completing the picture he had wanted to figure out all his life…

"_Tyelpe?" he repeated unbelievingly. "You have been bound to _Celebrimbor_, of all people?"_

Realizing that he had accidentally revealed his secret, Gildor remained silent for a while. Then he shrugged again.

"Yea, I have been. For a couple of years, ere he went down with his city"

"For _a couple of years? And that was how long ago? Three, four, five thousand years?"_

"A little more than five thousand," said Gildor simply. "But we are Elves. Time has a different meaning for us. We are supposed to last 'til the end of Arda, after all."

"That is an awfully long time, should the Halls have changed Celebrimbor too much," warned Imrahil earnestly. Gildor nodded, his face pale and grim.

"I know. But should that happen, I would go to the Halls myself, voluntarily."

There was a heavy silence for a time, Imrahil muted by the possible ramifications. Giving up their lives was not something Elves were usually prone to. And usually Gildor was not a person to give up _anything_ easily.

"'Twould be a rather… final step," the Prince said after a long while. "If I understood what you have taught me about Elven laws and customs, such a thing is heavily frowned upon among the High-Elves of Valinor."

"And in our family even more so," replied Gildor with a wry grin. "'Tis bad enough that I have bound myself to a scion of Fëanor, a son of Kinslayers, but giving up my life for him… King Finarfin the steadfast would probably die of shame himself. My poor mother would never be spoken to by her elated Vanyarin relatives."

"You do not seem to mind that, however," noticed Imrahil."

"Nay, I do not," admitted Gildor. "I have waited an Age and a half to see Sauron defeated and perished. I have fought in all major wars of those two Ages – and in some minor ones, too – to accomplish that goal. To see the Ring destroyed and Tyelpe free from the debt he had loaded onto himself involuntarily and unknowingly, I have remained in Middle-earth to fulfil his legacy; and now I shall leave these shores that had long become my home for him. What reason would I have to live without him, even in the Blessed Realm?"

Imrahil looked at the eerily calm face of the Elf-Lord in awe.

"You still love him that much?" he asked.

"Yea," said Gildor simply, "I still love him that much. Were I able to forget him, I could have wedded Arwen Undómiel two thousand years ago – as our bond had never been officially sanctioned – and founded a new dynasty. But not even the gentle shine of the Evenstar could make me forget the fire that burned in the _fëa of Tyelpe, hotter and brighter than in anyone else save mayhap Fëanor himself. When he died, part of me died, too; and my heart grew cold like ice."_

"No-one who has ever seen you among your people would believe _that," replied Imrahil gently. "I believe even Andra will have a hard time to hold on to his own prejudices after today."_

Gildor gave him a rueful smile. "Never underestimate the power of prejudices, Imrahil. Your… friend has grown up with the horrid tales about the evilness and cruelty of Elves… and myself. The Corsairs of Umbar have legends about me – legends in which I am described as some sort of demon."

"And you have done everything you could to rise to that reputation," added Imrahil accusingly. "I never understood why you found so much amusement in tormenting Andra."

Gildor shrugged. "'Twas petty, I know. But he reacts with such volatility to teasing and is such an easy target. His jealousy,,, his stubborn pride… his mistrust towards my kind… I simply cannot resist. Contrary to appearances I am trying to keep up, not even I am perfect, Imrahil. You are right – I find too much delight in making him angry. But even I need a little fun time and again – and most of my people are already immune against my teasing."

Imrahil raised an eyebrow. "A _little_ fun? You have been a menace to poor Andra all his life – and I still fail to understand why you chose _him_ of all people as your target. 'Tis usually beneath you to hack around on someone who cannot repay you in the same manner."

"Oh, he has risen to the challenge rather nicely," Gildor laughed. Then he leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowing. "You want the reasons? Well, here you have them. Firstly, our little feud kept me entertained, and that is no small thing for an Elf of my age. And secondly, I was curious how much he could take – and how far _your_ protectiveness would reach. In both things, the two of you have surprised me more than I would have expected."

"So, that was it all about?" Imrahil asked, strangely disappointed. "A game to you, to have a few amusing moments?"

"Nay," Gildor shook his head. "I would never play games with any Prince of Dol Amroth, you should know that by now. For Andrahar, I care not particularly; he irritates me. But you and your whole line have been entrusted to me by Mithrellas, and I take my responsibilities very seriously. Besides, you have been my friends for almost a whole Age. Do you think so little of me that I would misuse you for my own amusement?"

"Then what kept you doing this… this… Why can you not leave Andra alone? You are older than he is, and you supposed to be wiser."

"It all began with his ridiculous jealousy towards me – I _did_ find that amusing," admitted Gildor. "But as I kept watching the two of you, I became more and more fascinated by the strength of your friendship. You are so different, and yet you are as brothers to each other. I have learnt more about Men during these years than ever before. And – though I would never admit it in his earshot – I believe that you have become a better man through this friendship than you would have without it. Which is strange enough, but true nevertheless."

Imrahil still failed to understand Gildor's motivation completely, but he knew the Elf-Lord well enough to know that he would not get more out of him, no matter how much he asked.

The chiming of the evening bells interrupted their conversation, calling the whole household to the beginning of the feast: the meals in the Dining Hall. At the same time, someone knocked softly on the heavy oak door, and – without waiting for an answer – Enedrion entered the study. For the first time since they had known each other (which was since Imrahil's birth), the Prince noticed how haunted the eyes of the young aide were. 

"My Lord, everything is ready," the young Elf said. "They are only waiting for you."

"Very well," Gildor rose and smiled at his aide with something between fondness and compassion. "Let us go then. 'Tis my duty to open the Harvest Festival, after all."

TBC


	5. Part 5

**SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS 2**

**by Soledad__**

**Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.**

Master Andrahar, Lady Tirathiel, Liahan and Esteven belong to Isabeau of Greenlea and are used with her gracious consent. Enedrion, Falathar, Vorondis and all other Edhellond people belong to me. 

As always, heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

PART 5 

The Elves of the house had done an excellent job indeed. The Dining Hall looked more like a hall of Kings of old than that of a modest townhouse, its walls artfully decorated with garlands of grape and golden wreaths of ear. The long tables were groaning under the weight of this year's rich harvest. All sorts of fruits and vegetables were offered in great amounts and variety, and there was also fresh bread and mellow cheese. Traditionally, only the freshly collected fruits of field, orchard and vineyard were eaten on the opening feast of Harvest Time, aside from the honeyed seed cakes that were a symbol of fertility themselves. The pale yellow new wine was generously poured from large jugs, made by the best potter of Edhellond.

The members of the Town Council – male and female Elves from all various clans and tribes that populated Gildor's small realm – were seated around the main table, wearing their best robes, and even Andrahar, who had grown accustomed to Dol Amroth's lush pomp where clothes were concerered, had to blink a few times, seeing the beauty put into such ordinary things as pieces of clothing. Yet the places of honour were on either side of the Master of the House were occupied by outsiders on this evening.

Enedrion escorted Imrahil to Gildor's left (which had been the honorary place of family for Elves since the Elder Days), and Andrahar realized with awe that they actually let him sit next to Imrahil. On Gildor's right – the place of greatest honour for guests – a young Elven couple sat, and right next to them… a _Dwarf._

Of course, Andrahar recognized at once the Prince of Mirkwood, who was now the Lord of the Ithilien Elves – he had met him both in Minas Tirith and in Emyn Arnen, where Faramir's new house was still being re-built. But the tall, elegant Elf, clad in moss green and silver, differed greatly from the fierce warrior he had seen before the Black Gate. _This_ Legolas looked every bit the royal prince he was said to be.

He had the high cheekbones and finely-sculpted features only the nobles possessed even among Elves, with eyes of emerald green yet slightly slanted like those of the Silvan folk. Thin silver ribbons were woven into the delicate network of his auburn hair. It was artfully braided away from his ears and woven together in a tight ornamental braid atop the rest of his hair and lay shining upon his back, held together by a delicately-shaped silver ring that mimicked the form of leaves. Upon the index finger of his right hand he wore the simple golden ring of matrimony, but on the ring finger of his left he had the symbol of his power: a silver ring with a single green stone.

The Elven lady at his side was of exquisite beauty, too. Clad in silver and white, she had very long, shining hair, pale like the moonlight, and her large eyes were surprisingly dark and bright like a starlit night. Her smooth face was ageless as that of all Elves, yet Andrahar could not help but feel that she was actually rather young… for an Elf. Her golden ring was identical to that of Legolas', and she wore no other jewellery at all, save a _mithril girdle in the shape of interwoven leaves. Andrahar had never seen Legolas' wife before, as they had wedded in the Greenwood and only shortly returned to the South, but he knew at once that this lady could be no-one else._

He recognized the Dwarf with the fiery beard, of course. It was Gimli son of Glóin, one of the Companions of the Ring and now Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. And though Elves and Dwarves usually did not get along too well, 'twas said that Legolas and Gimli had become close friends during the Quest. Still, it seemed a little… odd, that Gildor, haughtiest of all haughty Elf-Lords, would allow a Dwarf not only to enter his town but also to sit at his table.

"Gildor had always rather good contacts to Dwarves," murmured Imrahil, seeing his friend's bewilderment. "Better ones than most other Elf-Lords, in fact."

No matter how quietly he spoke, he could not fool the keen Elven ears, though. Gildor overheard the remark and gave him an unreadable little smile.

"I like to be unpredictable," he said, and Imrahil rolled his eyes.

"That is what we mere mortals call an understatement."

Gildor shrugged and remained standing behind his chair to catch the attention of everyone. Gradually, the gathering fell into expecting silence. Accepting a burning candle-wick from Enedrion, the Lord of Edhellond walked over to the great Harvest wreath, placed on a small table before one of the large windows. The wreath was made of freshly-cut wheat that still had the ears intact and was decorated with grapes and small apples. Two candles were upon it; a red one, facing South, was burning, while the black one, facing North, was unlit.

"Here, with the sun set in the west, we thank the powers of Yavanna that guide us for the summer's growth," Gildor declared solemnly. "For those things we have tended, and those we have gathered in from the cold, we give thanks. For the coming of _narbeleth and _rh___î__v, that will lay the Earth to rest, we give thanks. In the cloak of the chill that will keep us in the house, we hope that we will grow in our own ways, and grow well(*). "_

With that, he lit the black candle and blew out the red one. As if it had been some sort of signal, all Elves rose from their seat and raised their clear voices to a song that was sweet and wild and full of joy at the same time – a Harvest song, more fiery than Andrahar would ever have expected from such cold and aloof creatures.

After the song, Gildor returned to his place, and now a loaf of fresh bread was brought to him – so fresh indeed that it still damped a little. Without using a knife, Gildor broke the bread and, as if unaware of its hotness, he began handing small pieces of it to all present people: first to his guests, then to his household, starting with the youngest member (who happened to be little Nenmír) and finishing with Istimor, his seneschal. All ate their bread standing and only sat down when the first cup of wine was offered.

Having emptied that first cup, however, the solemn mood was broken. Elves, Men and even the Dwarf were eating and drinking and laughing and jesting, while the minstrels took shifts to entertain them with their music. They played drinking songs, which were caught up quickly, and the talking gave room for singing. At one point even Gimli could be persuaded to sing something in Khuzdul, but as usual, he refused to translate the words to them, saying that Dwarves do not teach their language other people, especially not Elves. Fortunately, everyone had already had too much wine to take any offence.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once all had eaten their fill, the tables were pushed back against the wall and the minstrels changed their music to draw dancers to their feet. Which they followed all too readily. Meandering lines, led by Legolas and his lady, started slowly in an intricately intertwining motion that led back to itself and tangled the dancers into spirals and wheels. They moved gracefully in and out and around like slender flames, ducking under raised and lowered arms, as if they were dancing under tree-branches in a forest. Gradually, the dance sped up, until it became almost too fast even for Elves to keep the traditional steps and patterns. Men could not even hope to participate, but watching the graceful and lithe dancers swirl around, raising their slender arms and waving their delicate fingers was a delight in itself.

Legolas swept by in a swirl of steps, whisking his young wife around like a feather. The pale hair of the Lady Indreâbhan had become loose, flying behind her like a silken veil. They gazed at each other in a concentration that locked out everyone. They were drawn along in the dance, their feet following the quick and complex steps almost on their own. Gildor, too, joined the dance, swirling Mistress Vorondis around with him, all signs of sorrow vanished from his face.

The night crept by and the Elves finally began to wander away starting with the young couples who were holding hands, exchanging gentle smiles and singing softly with the music. A little later even the older members of the household asked for their Lord's leave to retreat Gildor simply nodded, smiling and humming to himself as the Hall slowly became abandoned.Finally, even the minstrels left. Only young Enedrion remained with Gildor and his guests – that is, with Imrahil and Andrahar, as the others had left for a good night's rest hours ago.

"My Lord," Enedrion murmured, "'tis not right that you should spend your last festival alone. I would be glad to offer my… company again…"

Gildor sighed, and – lifting his young aide's chin – kissed him on the mouth. 'Twas a long, lingering kiss, but there was no true passion in it, even the two Men could feel it. 'Twas a courtesy for the young Elf, naught else.

"Enedrion, we have spoken of this many times," the Lord of Edhellond said. "We both know it would not work – and why."

"And we both know that you would never touch me again once you are reunited with the one who has your heart in his keeping," replied Enedrion bitterly. "This is my last chance to be with you – do not take it from me!"

Gildor shook his head in sorrow but at the end gave in. "Well then, come with me. I shall try to make your last Harvest time in Middle-earth a memorable one. Even though I still think this is a mistake. All you can earn yourself this way is more pain."

"If this is a mistake," replied Enedrion with a brittle smile, "'tis my mistake to make. And break as it might my heart, 'tis still better than having naught to remember."

He dutifully blew out the candles, and the two Elves left the Hall hand in hand, wishing the two Men a peaceful night. Andrahar looked after them with mild disapproval.

"I thought if I accompanied you here, it would make me understand your precious Elves better," he said. "Yet after all that I have seen and heard here, the only thing I have become certain is that I shall never truly understand them."

"No mortal Man could ever hope for that," nodded Imrahil in melancholic agreement. "One thing is sure, though: Middle-earth will be a much less enjoyable place once they all have left. I am grateful that I shall not live to see those times."

~Finish~

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**End note:**

(*) Gildor's speech was Inspired by an outline to a Mabon ritual, found on Juniper's website, called "Sacred Place in the Wood Between the Worlds". Unfortunately, it does not seem to have been updated for quite some time.


End file.
